


Incentive

by secret_ivy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Dirty Talk, Don't copy to another site, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff and Smut, I have no excuse for this, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_ivy/pseuds/secret_ivy
Summary: Mycroft and Greg get ready for a gala that neither of them particularly want to attend.





	Incentive

**Author's Note:**

> Additional sex-related tags in the end notes because the dirty talk is a bit wide-ranging, but those acts aren’t actually happening during this fic.

Mycroft finishes styling his hair and washes the residual pomade off his hands. He pulls his suit jacket on, a slate gray matching his waistcoat and trousers. The man takes a moment to adjust his tie pin and then opens the bathroom door.

Greg is still changing in the bedroom. His shirt, jacket, and tie are laid out on the bed. He gives Mycroft a quick, rueful smile before reaching for the shirt.

Mycroft lets his eyes linger for a moment on Greg’s vest while it remains uncovered. The fabric is threadbare; Mycroft can see the darker skin of his lover’s nipples.

The fully dressed man mentally sighs and goes to the dresser where his mobile sits. 

It’s rare that their work overlaps in the public eye, much less for a formal gala. Instead of paperwork and endless emails, they need to navigate the coming mind-field of drunk coworkers and drunk minor politicians. At least the champagne will be decent; Mycroft had made sure of that with the planning committee.

More unfortunately, the event is rather inconveniently budding against a three-day weekend. They both would prefer to have stayed at home and started the holiday early.

As he is rapidly typing and responding to emails, Mycroft’s eyes catch glimpses of what’s going on behind him in the large mirror hanging above the dresser.

Greg is facing the bed, his back to Mycroft. The other man is almost done buttoning up.

Mycroft suddenly recognizes his lover’s outfit. It was made by Julian, his personal tailor. He’s never seen Gregory wear it outside the original fittings.

The muted pastel pink of the shirt is less conservative than usual, which makes it all the more alluring to Mycroft that it was the silver-haired man’sown choice. At the final fitting, Greg had remarked, “Mrs. Hudson said it was one of my colors. Got to admit, a nice change of pace from the usual blues and whites.”

Mycroft agrees with the color. By itself, it softens the silver of Gregory’s hair, but as the dark charcoal jacket is slipped on, the sharp contrast heightens the whole outfit and the already handsome man wearing it.

The jacket cut is fitted around the torso, but looser around the shoulders for more range of movement. Sharp blue eyes follow those broad shoulders; down the curve of Greg’s back; the end of the jacket that covers what he knows, by regularly applied attention, is a deliciously taut behind. God bless the Met’s running club and unofficial football league.

He doesn’t realize his fingers have stopped typing until the reflection of Gregory turns around, the length of black silk sliding between his hands.

“Hey, help me with this?”

Mycroft keeps staring at the mirror. He tries not to think about other uses for a silk tie. He resoundingly fails.

From Gregory’s face, he knows he’s been caught. “Of course.”

Mycroft turns to face Greg, opening his long hands obligingly.

Greg grins and steps forward. He places the tie in Mycroft’s awaiting hands. His hands now free, he sets them on the taller man’s hips, softly squeezing once and holds on.

Mycroft slides the fabric underneath the pink collar, fingertips tingling from the heat Gregory is giving off. He adjusts the ends, buying a few seconds to trample down his desire. They are currently on time to arrive as scheduled for the gala.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself and ends up with a whiff of oud and bergamot - the cologne he bought Gregory after attending an extremely long conference in Madrid. The night he returned. The dinner date a week later, his face buried in Gregory’s neck, the smell of the cologne and his lover’s sweat making his mouth water, the sharp impulse to bite down, to gorge himself on the other man.

Mycroft swallows and he feels his cock harden. The two ends of the tie are still resting in his hands. “It would be better if I did this standing behind you.”

Greg’s grin only grows larger at the suggestion and his hands fall to his sides. Mycroft beats down the spike of disappointment.

They easily shift around each other until Greg is facing the dresser, Mycroft standing behind him. Arms relaxed by his sides, the shorter man smiles, teasing, at their reflection. “Ready when you are, love.”

There’s an ease in Gregory’s body language, a hint of the greater trust the other man gives him, and it makes the want inside of Mycroft flare a little hotter.

Of course he noticed the slight tent of Greg’s budding erection. Instead of feeling smug about causing a mutual reaction, the knowledge of it only loops the desire between them, heat for heat, fuel for fuel.

Mycroft deliberately keeps an inch of space between them. He sees Gregory shiver, senses the vibration in the air. He stares at his lover’s parted lips, up at the heated look reflected back at him.

He slides his arms around Gregory, keeping eye contact in the mirror. He takes the liberty of stroking a line from collar down, and using just his thumb, rubbing across a peaked nipple. Lets his nail catch, hard, on it.

Greg sucks in a breath, “My,” his hands clenching at his sides.

Mycroft smiles and starts tying the cloth.

It’s quick work. The knot is a perfect triangle of black against Greg’s soft throat.

Making sure brown eyes are on his hands, Mycroft flattens his right hand against the tie, and slowly, slowly slides down the strip of silk. There’s a rapid heartbeat under his hand. Chest expanding and exhaling. His hand pauses where the shirt has been tucked, soft pink meeting charcoal.

The tie ends at the proper length - at the belt buckle. He lets his fingers fan, slip further down, caressing the tip of the tie with small, lazy sweeps.

Just south, Gregory is hardening in front of him, for him, just for a simple touch like this.

Before Mycroft can do more, Greg presses his own hand on top of the torturously teasing one, holding it in place.

“We need to stop,” a groan full of want and frustration. 

Mycroft steps forward, presses the entire lengths of their bodies together, chest to back, knees almost tucked into another. He moves his hands to grip Gregory’s hips, the same as his lover had done to him. He grinds against that delicious behind, just once, a sudden need for Gregory to know hard he is, how much he wants him, what the man does to him, to hear Gregory’s response - a bitten off moan. Mycroft presses the sides of their faces together, rubbing; he needs the contact, skin, even just this small patch. His blue eyes become heavy-lidded.

Greg’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth. Breathing out, “We’ll be late. We just need to be there for an hour, show our faces.” They both know the game.

Blue eyes darken. “A small taste then, to tide us over.” Mycroft slides one arm around Greg’s waist, keeps them pressed close together. The other hand slides up and tips the shorter man’s lips up toward him.

Their mouths open readily to each other, letting tongues glide softly. The shorter man pulls back to peck the corner of Mycroft’s lips, then back again for full lips against full lips.

One of Greg’s hands gently strokes the arm wrapped around his waist. His other hand lifts up, reaches, cradling the back of Mycroft’s neck.

Eventually, maybe a minute or two or five, they both pull back to breathe, foreheads resting against each other. The urgency banks itself for a moment.

The taller man brushes his lips against silver hair, temple, cheek. Against the ear in front of him, Mycroft whispers, “We will be quick at the gala. I will direct those who need to be, smooth feathers as required; you will charm everyone within eyesight.”

Greg shakes his head in denial, but his smile is indulgent and terribly smitten. His hand is still cupping the back of the taller man’s neck, stroking.

Mycroft smiles back at him, lets the hand that was holding Greg’s chin slide down until the shirt collar stops it. “When we’ve completed our duty, we will make our way home. You’ll steal a kiss, several actually, in the backseat.”

Mycroft’s smile remains soft and innocent-looking. “When we arrive, you’ll immediately want to take your jacket off, but I will stop you in the hallway.”

The taller man wraps both of his arms around Greg’s waist and tucks his face down and into the cradle of where neck and shoulder meet. Inhales, deep, the scent of oud and bergamot and Gregory. Brings his mouth back to a soft ear.

“I plan to have you there in the hallway, on my knees, your hard cock sliding into my mouth.”

Greg groans at the sudden image, eyes slamming shut of their our volition, hips jerking forward. He nods, whispers, “Yes, please,” and presses their bodies closer.

“I will not be able to wait, and neither will you. I won’t be gentle. My aim will be to make you come so fast and so hard and so far down my throat that your thighs will shake underneath my hands.”

_“Christ.”_

Mycroft slowly pulls his body away, his craving for the other man clawing at his insides. He keeps his hands on the shorter man’s hips.

Greg sways as if the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room. He presses his hands against the dresser to steady himself, propped upright. He’s breathing like he’s run after a criminal.

Mycroft forces his heartbeat to slow, his erection to lower by sheer will. They’ll be late now, but not noticeably so.

Their eyes meet again in the mirror.

“And then I will pull you here, back to like we are at this moment, your hands on the dresser to keep you steady. Except your shirt will be hanging open and your pants will be around your knees. I will open you wide with my fingers, two, three, then four because you love the stretch, the edge of almost too much, especially having already come once.”

“God, Mycroft. Don’t. Stop,” Greg moans, letting his head fall forward. He holds in position, wants to stay here, instead of going to the damned gala.

“Then I’ll give you my cock. I don’t plan to be gentle with you then either.”

Mycroft tightens his grip on Greg’s hips, a hard promise, before letting go.

In the mirror, brown eyes lift up and widen, then narrow. Greg lets out a breathless chuckle and licks his lips. He’s honestly not sure that if he lets go of the dresser now, that he’ll be able to walk on his own.

“Something to look forward to.” God, his voice shouldn’t be this low. They haven’t even gotten to the best parts yet.

“Of course, Gregory. Incentive for the both of us to be as efficient as possible in our socializing. I’ll grab our invitations from the kitchen and meet you at the front door.”

Mycroft isn’t fully soft yet, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by how smoothly he strolls away.

Behind him, Mycroft hears Greg curse and then laugh, delighted. “Yes, dear,” all agreement and equal promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of: blowjobs, deepthroating, fingering, anal sex, clothed sex, rough sex. 
> 
> O_O I honestly wasn’t aiming for some of these in the outline; the Mycroft in my head got away from me.


End file.
